


Ethereal

by NightmareWolf



Category: Death Note (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Asphyxiation, Choking, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, M/M, Mello lives AU, Meronia, NSFW, Post-Canon, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, mostly the latter though, this is my first nsfw fic go easy on me :pensive:
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:55:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24281689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NightmareWolf/pseuds/NightmareWolf
Summary: Near likes being choked. Mello likes choking. Need I say more?(Post-Kira AU. Mello lives. Minor dub-con warning)
Relationships: Mello | Mihael Keehl/Near | Nate River
Comments: 10
Kudos: 67





	Ethereal

**Author's Note:**

> Baby's first NSFW :') go easy on me idk what im doing lmfao  
> hope ya'll like it I guess?  
> WARNING for minor dub-con elements!!

Near didn't know what to think.

Rather, he  _ couldn't _ think.

His mind was nothing but a swirl of incoherent messes. His head pounded—blood roared in his ears and his head pounded like a never ending wave of tinnitus—or perhaps a beating drum within his skull, pounding on and on.

He wasn't quite sure how he got here. It's one of  _ those _ stories—one thing leads to another and suddenly he's pushed up against a wall, hands encased in rough leather wrapped around his throat, choking him. That said, Near wasn't  _ opposed _ to it. Sure, he wasn't expecting Mello to take the action, but that's what he counts on Mello for—unpredictability. It's what he liked about the other, yet also disliked at the same time. Then again, it's sort of funny to say you expect, or predict, somebody to be unpredictable; wasn't that an oxymoron?

That sort of thing is silly to ponder, though. Especially when you're rapidly losing oxygen. But your mind doesn't typically make sense when it can't function.

The buildup is probably the worst part, Near thinks. Like when you hold your breath, there's a few brief moments where you feel fine; you don't feel the urgency of having to breathe. He guessed this was the same thing, but much,  _ much _ worse. It was probably the loss of control. Yes, that had to be it—the tight feeling around his throat was no more than a reminder that he didn't have any power; he didn't have any say. Both physically and metaphorically, he had no voice in the matter. Arguably worse was the rapid pounding in his chest—his heartbeat. Logically, it was a result of overwhelming anxiety and adrenaline, tightening his muscles and overcoming him with a cold sweat. For several agonizing seconds, Near had to put up with it until his body realized, panic-struck, that he was in danger.

He was able to lift his arms up. A surprise, really; he could barely feel his fingers through the flood of shock, save for his pounding heartbeat at the tips of them. They tingled, and his legs were trembling horribly (from the adrenaline, presumably). Had it not been for Mello holding him in place, he would have collapsed by now.

He was always weak.

Near's delicate, pale fingers brushed against Mello's wrists; the leather fabric felt both intense yet distant simultaneously. He tried—though his vision was starting to sparkle with black fireworks—to look at Mello. The blood pounding in his head and roaring in his ears was giving him a headache; the pressure behind his eyes made it hard to visualize what was in front of him. Almost as if it were all soft, as if it were too _ loud _ to  _ see _ .

And he wondered, staring into those icy blue eyes, did Mello find this for fun? Did he like seeing Near powerless; trembling? Did he enjoy seeing a terrified expression on his pale face? Was it satisfying, hearing him vainly trying to gasp for air or to say something— _ anything _ —and only coming up with a choked whimper; a crack of the voice?

Was he fantasizing of killing him, too?

He was unpredictable; maybe he would take it that far.

The idea _ excited _ Near.

Though his chest burned and his lungs ached agonizingly with the need for oxygen, though his head felt like it may as well explode, he smiled. Barely, but he smiled. It only lasted for a fraction of a second, though; it felt like Mello had tightened his grip, and Near couldn't protest. His thumbs pressed against Near's sensitive skin, right below his Adam's apple, and—and it  _ hurt _ . His body, already rigid, stiffened with pain. His eyes shut tightly; mouth wide open, he tried to gasp—it felt like his chest would burst, and his head was spinning with desperate thoughts—but he couldn't. He tried, he tried; his chest heaved and his nails dug into the leather of Mello's gloves, right along the wrists, but he just  _ couldn't _ . All that came out was a pathetic, sick gurgle.

And truly, he thought he was going to die. It's that weird clarity; after all the initial panic, the adrenaline, and the incoherent thoughts came the unsettling blank calmness. When his vision was going black, when he couldn't feel his limbs, when his head felt like exploding—that's when he, calmly, accepted the possibility of death. That's also when he felt the best, like pure bliss; as if there was nothing more euphoric in the world. As if he couldn't feel  _ any  _ better than this. Teetering the edge of life and death—that's what he liked most. That's what got him _excited_ the most.

That's also when Mello let go.

Without Mello's hold, Near's weak legs immediately gave out. He collapsed against the wall, gulping in raspy, broken gasps before his breath hitched, sending him into a coughing fit he could barely feel. Though he wasn't present enough to be aware of it, his body trembled violently, and he could only feel the shock and adrenaline coursing through his body; it tightened his muscles to the point of immobility. He felt unnaturally cold—shock, he determined—and his vision was still hazy and dark.

The logical part of his mind was reassuring him, telling him that he was alive, but the forefront of his mind was disoriented and confused. He was too damn dizzy. He let himself fall over onto his side, unable to keep sitting up, and greedily panted for oxygen.

He almost flinched when he felt Mello's hand brush against his cheek. It feels _ wrong _ , he thought. His own body was still too cold, too tingly. Mello's hand, though encased in leather, felt too warm in comparison.

Through blurred vision and ringing ears, he sensed Mello above his now collapsed body. Near honestly didn't believe he would have the strength to stay conscious, much less fight back, if Mello decided to pull another stunt like that.

_ But I liked it. _

There was a flame burning in Near's belly—a fire hungry for this feeling of danger; a feeling of powerlessness.  _ And perhaps Mello feels the same. Perhaps he desires for power. _

He supposed, in that regard, that made this equally beneficial.

Mello murmured something close to his ear—something Near was not in the right headspace to decipher. He tried to speak—something like, "gimme a moment,"—but it came out weak and slurred. Near wasn't even sure if it sounded intelligible behind his ringing ears. He couldn't make sense of it all—how long had it been since Mello let go of him? A few seconds? A minute? Had he passed out?

He began to laugh.

Well, perhaps  _ laugh _ wasn't the way to describe it. More like a giggle—or a chortle, given how raspy and wheezy his breath was. He didn't really think about it; there wasn't much going through Near's head, to be fair. And he enjoyed that; he enjoyed not thinking, just laughing. He enjoyed the blissful high he got, the way it made him shudder and tremble, and the way he couldn't control his body or his breathing.

He felt Mello's hand against his cheek again, but this time it felt more solid. It felt  _ right. _

"Hey, Near." Near made out Mello's voice. Albeit blocked by his still-ringing ears, he could make out the words and understand them. "Stop laughing, that's weird."

Near’s quiet giggles calmed down; less of an obedience to Mello’s words and more of a result of his senses snapping back to him. The ringing dissipated, though his head refused to stop pounding and his body didn't stop trembling. The pressure around his neck had left it sore; swallowing felt odd, almost restrictive, and he felt a tad sick.

But he didn't mind that at all. Not for what it was worth, at least. He gazed up at Mello, grinning absently as he rolled gently onto his back so Mello could properly pin him down.

"Why are you smiling?"

The question caught Near off guard. Truthfully, he hadn't even realized he was.

He tried his best to shrug, but his body was still stiff and uncomfortable, so it was more akin to an awkward shift. "Am I not allowed to?"

His response was met with a narrow gaze from the other. For them, such a smart yet otherwise innocent response meant a challenge, one that spoke: "well, what are you gonna do about it?"

As if to reply to Near's unspoken challenge with his own wordless response, Mello's gloved hands delicately cupped around Near's sore neck.

The reply was almost instant. "What? Are you gonna choke me again?" Near asked, smile widening as Mello remained silent. "That's not much of a threat. Aren't threats supposed to be something unpleasant?"

The other let out a snort, one that would pair nicely with an eye-roll, but he didn't break his fierce gaze away from Near. "Right, almost forgot; you're into this."

_ You didn't forget _ , Near wanted to retort back, but the reply was unable to come out. What spilled out instead was a whimpering, shuddering moan as he felt Mello's knee press into his crotch. It was soft; delicate; not enough to  _ hurt.  _ In all honesty, Near would've preferred the alternative, if only because the lack of stimulation as opposed to violent stimulation was  _ worse _ .

(It had nothing to do with the fact he  _ liked _ being hurt, surely...)

To express his annoyance, Near shot Mello a glare to match his pouty expression. The non-verbal response that he received was a wide smirk; a grin that parted both lips just slightly, letting Near see a sliver of white. It barked back a challenge, one that didn't need to be spoken:

_ "Well, what are you gonna do about it?" _

Certainly, that was the question, wasn't it?

_ I can't do much,  _ Near conceded silently to nobody but himself, letting his still weak hands gently grasp around Mello's wrists, letting his palms brush against the cold leather, letting his body heat quickly turning the leather under his hands sticky and warm.  _ I can't do much _ , he repeated once more in his head,  _ but I'm okay with that. _

Mello took Near's lack of response as submission. He watched the other breathe lightly; rhythmically. If it wasn't for the quickened heartbeat (and his wide-opened eyes), Mello could have assumed Near was asleep.

Near's soft breathing hitched when he felt pressure encasing his throat once more. This time, the pressure was applied gradually—and even then, it wasn't that strong. Comparatively to earlier, and more so to what Mello was physically  _ capable  _ of, this was quite gentle, even if it made breathing a bit of a struggle. Near exerted more energy into sucking in raspy breaths between the pressure. Instinctively, the blockage made him want to cough, but he knew doing so would only make it harder to breathe, so he had to bite that urge back.

As the hands around his throat grew ever tighter, Mello lowered himself down on Near, gently—almost  _ teasingly _ —rubbing against Near's dick. Near was already aroused, so it didn't take much friction (even with both their pants on) to draw a reaction out of him. He gritted his teeth and shut his eyes, biting back a whimper of pleasure. Though he didn't have control in this situation per se, he had control over how much satisfaction he gave to Mello in terms of how he reacted.

Of course, Mello  _ hated  _ losing, especially to Near, and this was nothing more than a challenge for him; a  _ game _ they played.

Once again, Mello's hands tightened around Near's throat to the point that breathing became a  _ real  _ struggle. If he  _ really  _ tried, he could suck in a sliver of air, but the aching strain in his throat and his chest and his lungs made him wonder if it were really worth such a trifling amount of oxygen.

_ That's naive,  _ he scolded himself mentally. It was almost funny how quickly he forgot how desperate one could be for air when they had none.

Mello wasn't helping him by any means, of course. More aggressively now, he continued to grind against Near's lower half. Between the lack of oxygen and all the sensations coursing through Near's sensitive body, his mind whirled. He couldn't choke back the noises he desperately wanted to, not when his mind was unable to focus or make sense of all that was happening. Luckily, the grip around his neck drastically reduced any volume behind his whimpers and raspy moans, and instead they resembled more of stuttering gasps or weak gagging.

His arms and legs began to tingle again; once more, he felt his body go through the motions that it had earlier. The shivering, the pounding in his head and in his chest...except this time it felt  _ riskier  _ to Near. The first instance of choking had left him weak and tired—he was honestly concerned with his own ability to hold onto consciousness.

Perhaps that's what made Near enjoy this  _ more _ .

A part of him wondered if it were a subconscious survival tactic that made him start squirming, weakly kicking his legs to what little avail he could. He reasoned that, on the ground like this, he had an easier time manipulating his body. Ergo, Near's hands scrambled down Mello's wrists to his hands, not doing much but besides curling his pale fingers into the leather fabric. He had already begun to feel dizzy, which was not a good sign. All the same, Mello's rubbing against his dick wasn't doing him any favors to combat the overwhelming stimulation—it was driving him  _ mad _ . He couldn't even gain any of the friction his body so desperately wanted by thrusting his hips; Mello was much too heavy on top of him, and the oxygen deprivation left him weaker than he already was.

He always had quite the sensitive body and an even more sensitive response to stimulation. Of course, Mello  _ knew  _ this—there was very little Mello didn't know about when it came to Near's body—so it was likely he was weaponizing this knowledge against Near. A means to overstimulate him, simply put; considering the grinding, the asphyxiation, and the fact that Near was generally just  _ extremely  _ aroused at the moment, it was certainly working.

Maybe working a  _ bit _ better than Mello expected.

A cold wave of blissful shock swept over Near as a sheen of sweat; Near's eyes opened as Mello abruptly let go of his bruised neck, gasping and panting with intermittent coughs and fractured, whimpering moans. His head spun dizzily, and he felt all the sensations that he had the first time around. He counted his blessings that he was lying on the floor this time; had he been standing up still, he surely would have fainted in an instant, evident by his fuzzy, sparkling vision. Like fireworks, black dots danced around his eyes.

It was when feeling began rushing back to his trembling body that he noticed something else (besides how  _ painfully _ hard he was, and how much he wished to resolve that as well): his eyes stung.

At first, he figured it was a by-product of the blood pounding in his head and behind his eyes. But as he lifted a shaking hand up to his cheek, the tips of his knuckles grazed something wet. He knew that it wasn't sweat, no, so he quickly came to the conclusion that they were tears.

Probably from the choking and over-stimulation, he reasoned. Actually—it was definitely that. Still, after blinking a few times, his eyes met with Mello's. They were untelling of any emotion, and yet that still seemed telling in and of itself to Near; it was as if he were looking for something, though Near had no clue what that _something_ was. He usually never stopped so abruptly, so Near found the circumstances to be odd. 

But, perhaps it  _ wasn't _ odd. This  _ was  _ the first time Mello had seriously decided to choke Near for an extended period of time, although the idea had been thrown about much before this day. As well, Near realized that sudden tears to an outsider might indicate…

He grinned.

Mello must have been able to read Near's thoughts based on his wide, confident grin alone, because his face began to heat up into an obvious blush. "Don't smile at me like that, you twit."

"Sorry," Near replied disingenuously, his smile only faltering for the second that surprise overcame him to hear just how scratchy his voice was at the moment. "I just think it's sweet you worry about me."

It didn’t take a Wammy’s certified genius to figure out  _ Mello  _ certainly didn't think it was sweet. He scowled, eyes averting from Near's gaze momentarily. " _ Worry _ isn't the word I'd use."

"Apologies. 'Care', perhaps?" 

That snarky comment earned Near another swift (albeit light) knee-jab to the crotch, which both  _ hurt  _ yet felt  _ tremendously _ good at the moment, coaxing out a breathy moan from Near. He spent a second to regain his bearings—to drive away his agonizing arousal and his lightheadedness—before snapping his eyes to Mello.

“You know,” he started up again, swallowing uncomfortably against his scratchy throat which still felt tight despite being let go of, “you only really get angry like that when I’m correct.”

“ _‘Correct?’_ ” Mello echoed as if it were an answer to a joke he didn’t understand. “More like when you  _ act _ like a smartass which, coincidentally, is all the _ time _ .”

A hiss of air resembling something of a chuckle was let out, soft lips curling into a smile. “Do I? Dont’cha also do the— _ aah _ -” Near’s voice, once conveying an actual intelligible sentence, lingered on his words before melting into a moan. He bit his tongue and choked back the urge to make any more noise—save for the rough pants whistling out his nose—as he felt Mello’s hand rubbing against the tent in his pants. But the biting became too painful, so he let his mouth fall open, sucking in raspy gasps of pleasure.

“What? Not gonna say anything now?” Mello sneered, his one hand continuing to rub Near as his other hand tightened around Near’s neck again, palm pressed up at an angle into his throat. It wasn’t enough to choke him, not with just one hand, but it certainly was enough to make him feel discomforted. Low groans of pleasure rumbled in Near's throat; the sensation almost overwhelming him to the point of not hearing Mello's words. 

Indeed, he really  _ didn't  _ have anything to say. His mind was racing, and all he could process was the tight feeling around his throat and the heavenly sensation pooling in his abdomen. It was blissful—almost as blissful as the choking he had endured earlier—and it made his gasps become louder and harsher. “ _ Damn it _ ,” he growled through wheezing breaths, finding it impossible to choke back every moan and whimper.

He heard Mello speak—he wasn’t sure what, though. He wasn’t exactly paying attention, not with the dizziness and pleasure clouding all sense of reason and coherency. But based on his tone of voice, Near could tell he was being rather stuck-up. That wasn’t a worry, though; he couldn’t care less about holding back an orgasm just to match Mello’s snide attitude. In all honesty, he didn’t think he could even if he  _ tried _ .

Near's chest heaved rapidly with each gulp of air he struggled to intake against Mello’s hand. He shut his eyes tightly, a low moan rumbling in his throat as his body shuddered. He orgasmed, his fingernails curling into the palm of his hands while riding out the intense sensation; the type of feeling, of stimulation, that was often regarded as one of the best highs out there. And with Mello, well, perhaps that was true.

He rid out his high for as long as he could, relishing in the pure euphoria and joy and pleasure of it. He didn’t open his eyes again until he felt the last of it melt away, and even then he spent a minute panting; recovering. 

When he did look, sharp, icy blue eyes stared back at him. The sudden realization dawned on him that Mello no longer had his hand against his throat and, furthermore, he no longer had his hand palmed on his dick, either. With a small wince Near  _ also  _ realized that he was going to need to change his pants soon. But, he was far too exhausted to care about that.

Trembling hands placed themselves by Near’s side as he attempted to push himself up-right, but quickly found the ensuing dizziness to be much stronger than he expected, as well as far too great for him to fight against. He fell back against the floor with a soft grunt, clearing his throat.

Mello tilted his head as he looked down at Near, golden-blonde hair falling past his face and minorly obscuring his vision. He brushed a strand of it behind his ear—the side unaffected by the explosion—to get a better look at Near. “Are you okay?”

Near’s pink lips gently curled into a smile. “I thought’cha said you didn’t care about me,” he spoke playfully in a gravelly voice thanks to the abuse inflicted upon his throat.

Mello frowned, tilting his head a bit too fast and causing his hair to fall down again. “I’m asking because you seem dazed.”

“Only a little,” Near admitted. “I’m more dizzy than anything.”

Mello scoffed. “You say that like it’s any better.” he didn’t wait for a reply before continuing his train of thought. “You should rest; you don’t want to fuck your throat up anymore than it already is.”

“I’m not fragile, you know,” Near mumbled indignantly as the other began helping him up.

“No, but you  _ are  _ human; even if that’s hard to believe,” Mello tacked on with a mischievous smirk, making Near huff with an annoyed  _ hmph.  _ He rose unsteadily with Mello’s help, his legs feeling weak and unsupportive as they shook under his weight. With his head spinning, he allowed himself to lean against Mello.

How funny, Near thought, that the same person willing to choke him out is the person he feels most safe around.

**Author's Note:**

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